


In Stitches

by Aspen (silveraspen)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveraspen/pseuds/Aspen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's unexpected respite to be found in a quiet garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Stitches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anythingbutblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutblue/gifts).



> Written to fit with either book or TV canon. Set during _A Clash of Kings_ / Season 2 of _Game of Thrones_ , after "Garden of Bones" and before "Blackwater."

Sansa jabbed the needle into the tip of her thumb and bit back an unladylike cry. Tears were unseemly, she knew that, and yet they came to her all too easily in King’s Landing. It was useless to weep, especially over such a little hurt, she knew that too, but she was alone here in Myrcella’s garden and so she defiantly let the tears fall, her sight blurring until she could almost imagine that she was surrounded by the familiar glass gardens of Winterfell.

“My lady Sansa. Are you hurt?” Another reason tears were unwise, it seemed; she hadn’t seen him coming. The Imp was standing in front of her, looking at her with that disturbing way he had, as though he were seeing right through a person. “Did Joffrey—”

“My lord Joffrey is gracious,” she interrupted, instantly. It was too dangerous for her to let him speak further, didn’t he know that? He had been kind to her before, but he was still a Lannister. Was he secretly like all the rest of them, always trying to catch her off guard? “I am well.”

“You are bleeding,” he pointed out. Her glance followed his to her hand, where a growing drop of blood threatened to fall and stain her embroidery. Sansa let her sewing fall into her lap and quickly lifted her hand, reaching with her other for the bit of felt that she used as her needlekeeper. She meant to blot the errant drop away before it could ruin her work, but the Imp was quicker than she.

“Allow me.” His grip was firm, but gentle enough not to hurt. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around her hand, then let go.

“Thank you,” she murmured, pulling her hand back to her. She looked down at it so that she didn’t have to meet his mismatched eyes. “You are most kind, my lord.”

He made a noncommittal noise and climbed up to sit on the stone bench next to her. Sansa had to fight the urge to flinch away from him, but he didn’t seem to notice, nor did he crowd her.

“What are you working on?”

“This? Nothing,” she said, but lifted the embroidery frame so that he could see it clearly. A border of vines worked in shades of green surrounded the unmarked center; she had been adding the last of a few small, brightly-colored birds to the vines when she’d stabbed herself. 

“Nothing?” He raised both his eyebrows.

“A mere trifle,” Sansa replied, and even managed a small smile. She could do that, at least. A lady’s armor is her courtesy, Septa Mordane had always said. While it was true that all her courtesies, all her pretty pleas and letters hadn’t saved her sister or kept her father’s head from Joffrey’s spikes, her armor was what she had left. “It’s just a simple pattern.”

“But a lovely one,” the Imp told her. “You have a delicate touch with the needle.”

Sansa bit her lip and looked down at her work, but not quickly enough for his sharp eyes to miss seeing her dismay.

“My lady, if I have offended you —”

“No,” she said, before realizing that she might have been able to use that as an excuse to withdraw. Then again, if she went back into the keep, either Joffrey or the queen might send for her. They would anyway, if they wanted her, she knew, but they were a little less likely to do so if she stayed out of their way. “No, my lord, it was nothing. Only…”

His expression was kind, she realized, and he was listening to her.

“… my mother would always say that to me. When I was little. It used to make Arya so mad.”

“Your sister? Why?”

“Arya hated embroidery,” Sansa told him. “She thought it was stupid. She’d rather have been outside training with our brothers.” She hesitated, but then added, “I think she just hated it because she wasn’t any good at it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she named her sword Needle.”

“Ah. I see.” He was watching her, and she looked back down at her sewing to avoid his glance. “Do you miss your sister?”

“My sister has traitor’s blood,” Sansa instantly replied. “My father was a traitor, as are my brother and my lady mother —”

“Peace, child,” the Imp said. He sounded tired. She looked up at him as he continued, “I lay no traps for you with my words. There is no one else to hear; Bronn stands at the garden gate and will give ample warning of any approach. Now, tell me: do you miss your sister?”

Sansa shook her head. “Arya didn’t like it here. She didn’t want to come.”

“I see,” he observed, quietly. “And you wouldn’t wish her back here, even for your own sake, is that it?”

She cast her gaze back down at her embroidery, and he sighed, but let it go. After a moment, he spoke. “My sister and I were never close. My brother, now – that was different.”

Sansa dared another look at him. “Do you miss him? Lord Jaime?”

“I do,” he replied. “I worry that he finds northern hospitality as pleasant as you have found that of King’s Landing.” She had no safe answer to give in response to that, and he seemed to know it, for he didn’t wait for her to speak. “Jaime was the best son my father could have ever had – until he joined the Kingsguard, that is.”

“Why then?” she asked, before she could think better of it. The Imp turned toward her.

“Because just like those who take the black of the Night’s Watch, those who join the Kingsguard give up their inheritance and their right to father children. Jaime was my father’s heir.” He paused for a second. “Although I do have to say, the white cloak suits him better than the black would have. He’s too pretty for a crow.”

Sansa giggled, surprising herself, and he smiled. “Your laughter suits you, Lady Sansa. I hope that you’ll have cause to laugh more in the days to come.” 

He slid down from the bench, and she quickly unwound his handkerchief and offered it to him, but he shook his head. “Keep it. You can use it the next time you prick yourself with those sharp little weapons of yours.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he turned to leave. He seemed kind, to be sure, but so had the queen once, and so had Joffrey. She couldn’t trust any of them, but what would it hurt to show that she appreciated his help?

“Lord Tyrion?”

As he turned around, she took note of the startled expression on his face, but didn’t dare take time to dwell on it. Her fingers were already flying, setting the last few stitches in the bird’s feathers. Sansa neatly tied off the last one, removed the finished piece from the frame, and held it out to him.

“For your kindness,” she said. Sansa made herself smile as she met his incredulous glance, and found it easier than she’d expected. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Your are far too generous, my lady,” he replied, but he took the cloth and held it carefully before putting it away in his doublet. “And as brave as the rest of your family. Thank you.”

Tyrion Lannister bowed to her before taking his leave. She sank back down onto the bench as his footsteps faded.

Brave? She certainly didn’t think so. But she was still alive, and for now, that would do.


End file.
